


The Final Question

by Jupiter_Ash



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 11:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11289795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash
Summary: After the events at Sherrinford, John has a question and goes to Mycroft for the answer.





	The Final Question

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to someday_apiary for the beta.

“Come in, Doctor Watson.”

John hadn’t been sure what would greet him at the Diogenes Club, or even if he would be welcome, but the lack of reaction from the gentleman at reception on reading Mycroft’s name and the speed with which he had been shown into Mycroft’s usual room suggested a certain lack of surprise.

On greeting him, Mycroft didn’t rise from his chair, just waved him over, motioning to the second chair opposite and the decanter and spare glass resting on the small table between them.

“Please, help yourself.”

The words sounded weary, lacking in the usual focused crispness John had come to associate with Mycroft. They matched all too well the tiredness on the other man’s features, the slightly gaunt look that seemed to add age and shadow to his face. It was reminiscent of five years earlier, the first time he had come here. That visit had involved Moriarty and Sherlock also, and another poor decision on Mycroft’s behalf. Poor decisions seemed to be haunting the other man recently.

“You’ve been expecting me?” he asked lightly as he crossed the room.

“You have questions,” Mycroft said simply, watching the amber liquid swirl within his own crystal glass. “Or rather you have one question in particular.”

Clearing his throat, John perched on the edge of the other chair.

“You know why I’m here then?” It was more than just a question, but less than just a straight statement.

Mycroft offered a flat, weak smile. “My brother,” he said, “can evidently deduce where you will be two weeks before the fact, before you’ve even made the decision, and he can do that whilst being drugged to the eyeballs. I flatter myself that while I do not know you as my brother does, I can at least deduce what has brought you to my door.”

He tipped the amber liquid from one side of the glass to the other.

“You have a question. In fact, you have many questions following the recent events, the revelations that have been brought about, but only one of those questions pertains solely to you, and so that is the only question feel you have the right to ask. It is of a delicate nature, so you hesitate to voice it, but it is insistent in your mind, nagging at you, and so here you are.

“You want to know, Doctor Watson, why my brother, when forced to choose, picked you to live over me.”

John swallowed. “Yes.”

“And unable to fully justify your continued existence in light of that choice, you come to me. Because you think I know the answer.”

“Well, yes,” John said.

“Why?”

With that one word he found himself facing the full force of the Holmes’ stare, but it was not enough to make him back down. It was far from enough in fact.

“Because I think you knew the answer right from the start,” he said. “What you said. What you did, in that room. What you tried to force him to do. Making it easier on him. You knew that in the end, he would choose me.”

Mycroft’s expression never faltered. “Yes.”

John frowned. “Now, see, that’s what I don’t understand. You, Eurus, even bloody Moriarty, you were all so sure that Sherlock would make the choice he did. Why? You said it yourself, I’m just ordinary, nothing special, easily replaceable. Brains over sentiment, that’s what he needed, what he was choosing between. Hell, I even agreed with you. And yet-”

And yet it had been Mycroft that Sherlock had pointed the gun at. His own brother. And that was even before Mycroft had confessed to Sherlock about the Moriarty Christmas present.

“Interesting, isn’t it,” Mycroft offered. “The applied Sophie’s Choice. The impossible decision.”

“So, what’s the reason?”

Mycroft was silent for a moment, eyes distant and unseeing in the present. Then he seemed to shake himself, returning to the present.

“I’m afraid I’m the wrong person to ask,” he said. “Might I suggest you ask Sherlock instead?”  

“I have,” John said, pushing away his own lingering memories persistently hovering on the edge of his mind. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. “I’ve already asked him.”

“And what did my brother say?”

“He said it was Rosie. Said he couldn’t live with making her an orphan.”

Mycroft mouth drew into what for him could be considered the beginning of a smile. “And you don’t believe him?”

“No.” John shifted in the chair and looked away. “Well, not completely. I’m not saying that she wasn’t a factor, but Moriarty couldn’t have predicted Rosie, or at least couldn’t have guaranteed her existence. She didn’t exist five years ago. So she can’t be the answer.”

“Quite right,” Mycroft said. “Your instincts serve you well.”

“So if not Rosie, then what?”

Mycroft’s smile was almost apologetic. “I’m sorry, Doctor Watson, but if you don’t already know then I cannot tell you.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“Both. It is not my place and if there is one thing this whole sorry mess has taught me it is that in certain matters, particularly familial, it is best if I do not over reach my place.”

“So you’re not going to tell me,” John said once it became obvious that nothing more was coming.

“Apologies.”

There was another period of silence.

“Right then. Sorry for wasting your time.” He rose to his feet, then stopped. “For what it’s worth-” he started.

“No need,” Mycroft said, cutting him off with a brief wave of the hand. “I already know.”

John stayed still and silent for a moment, eyes scrutinising the familiar face. Then pulling himself upright, he nodded and strode to the door.

“Doctor Watson.”

Hand on the door handle, he stopped. Turning back, he found Mycroft still sitting, but the angle now meant that Mycroft was half turned away from him, shoulders rounded, glass still in hand. 

“While introspection is not your strongest suit, please consider a few facts in your quest for closure. In the past seven years, my brother has died for _you_. Twice in fact. He committed treason and shot a man in the head, for _you_. Knowing that the resulting European mission was of a suicidal nature, he lied about the nature of that mission in order to spare _you_. Before that he organised the perfect wedding, for _you_. When your wife shot him, killed him in fact, he forgave her. Then, because it was what _you_ needed, he encouraged you to forgive her also. Then when she died, when _you_ told him to stay away, that anyone was better than him, he stayed away. From _you_ , for _you_ , because of _you_.

“Every major decision my brother has made in the past seven years, he has made for and because of _you_.”

“What are you saying?” Surprised, John’s voice was strained and hollow, even to his ears.

Mycroft didn’t turn, but his smile was one of sadness. “Brains versus sentiment; in what world would he have ever chosen me over you?”

John couldn’t reply. It was almost as if his brain had frozen. The kaleidoscope of memories that had flashed through his mind with Mycroft’s words had stopped and now all he could see was Sherlock, all small smile and focused gaze.

He blinked, once, twice, shook his head as if that would restart his thoughts and even opened his mouth as if he had an idea of what he might possibly say. What could he say? What was Mycroft saying?

“Wha-?” he started, but that was as far as he got.

“Good day, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said. “Please give Mrs Hudson my best wishes.”

A dismissal if there was ever one.

Closing his mouth, John tightened his grip on the door handle, then, after a moment of inaction, snapped himself together and walked from the room.

*

He went to Baker Street.

Because that was where people who had questions went.

The fire was out, the structural engineers had declared it safe to return, so now the process of seeing what was salvageable was underway.

When detailing a plan, Sherlock had once said that fire exposes priorities. Then again Sherlock had said a lot of things over the years. It was only now though that John realised just how much Sherlock hadn’t said as well.

He had never really said why he had jumped from that roof. Never really spoken about Magnusson and what happened that Christmas. And he had certainly never told him that that six month mission in Europe had been a one way trip.

_There’s something I should say. I’ve meant to say always and then never have._

For a man who could say a lot, there was so much that had gone unsaid.

And so much that John had heard without really hearing.

_The two people who love you most in all the world._

Christ, even Mary had known if that last video was anything to go by.

This went far further than just friendship. He really was an idiot for not noticing.

How could he have missed that his best friend could be, could well be, in love with him?

No wonder Sherlock never texted Irene back.

You see but you don’t observe.

Idiot.

221B. He made his way through the front door.

The explosion had gutted most of the sitting room and a good chunk of the kitchen. The bedrooms and Mrs Hudson’s flat had been mostly spared aside from water damage, but a lot of things John had come to associate with Sherlock had been destroyed; not least his precious violin and accompanying sheet music. And what hadn’t been completely destroyed – the chairs, tables, some of the books – a lot was beyond repair, even by Mycroft’s magic minions who were coordinating the clearing and replacing.

At least the new windows were now in.

This was the second time they had been replaced in seven years. God, it was surprising they still had any neighbours.

Was act of terrorism even covered on the insurance?

Shaking his head at the thought, he jogged up the last few steps.

“Ah, John. Please tell this imbecile that there is nothing wrong with my chair.”

And there he was, Sherlock Holmes, crisp black suit and white shirt amongst the singed, scorched and burnt remains of the life they had once shared. Petulant, indignant, insulting, but at times also caring, generous, and astonishingly sentimental.

_What can we deduce about his heart?_

What indeed.

“Why, what are they trying to do with it?” he asked, stepping round the first of several bulging black rubbish bags.

“No idea,” Sherlock said. “But they keep trying to take it.”

“Well, it does need cleaning,” he said, making room for a workman who was covered in soot and wore the expression of one who had had a close encounter with a madman.  “Can’t have you stinking of burnt leather every time you sit in it. Hardly professional. And isn’t the floor being ripped up tomorrow? Probably should put it somewhere safe before then.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said with a huff, finally relinquishing the chair with a wave of his hand to a relieved looking workman who quickly removed it from the room as if afraid the permission would be retracted.

They both watched the chair go.

Sherlock’s face was without particular emotion, but his eyes seemed almost forlorn. It was a look John was only now starting to recognise.

He gave a soft cough as the last workman left the room.

“Listen,” he said, stepping towards his friend. “I know we’re not exactly the most emotionally expressive of people.”

“You mean the way I repress my emotions to refine my reasoning, and you keep everything bottled up until it comes out in a form of anger?” Sherlock interrupted in an idle tone, already reaching for his mobile.

“Yeah, that,” John said sharply. “Look, just shut up for a moment.”

That seemed to get Sherlock’s attention.

John took a deep breath. “Just. Having Rosie. Losing Mary. This,” he motioned to the room around them. “It’s made me think. About what I care about. About what’s important to me. And what with all the stuff in the past year, two, three years even, I don’t think I’ve ever made it clear how much you mean to me. How much you matter.”

That really did get Sherlock’s attention.

“John, I-”

“I said shut up.”

Sherlock shut his mouth.

“You’re… my best friend,” John continued. “I care about you. A lot. So much. And I know I haven’t exactly always treated you right, or properly, and god knows I’ve taken you for granted, but for all your faults and sometimes misguided actions, I know, I realise now, that your heart has always been in the right place, even if I’m too blind to see it.

“So, whatever happens, I want you to know that I’m gonna be right here. With you. Not because I have nowhere else to go, but because I want to be. Whether it’s chasing down a midget with a blow gun. Or fishing around in rubbish tips. Or just having a night in. I’ll be here. Always. Me and, well, Rosie. Although she won’t be doing any of the dangerous things. Just thought you should, you know, know.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said slowly. “That’s uh-” he trailed off as he looked away. “Thank you.”

“Good,” John said. “Right then. Now, I’m betting you haven’t eaten since breakfast, if at all. What do you say to picking up Rosie and going somewhere for an early dinner?”

Sherlock frowned as if considering it, his brain busily jumping from one track to another. “Hmmm. Angelo has a new menu. Been meaning to try it. I’m sure he’d be delighted to knock up something suitable for Rosie as well. Pasta in some sort of tomato sauce?” He moved to the door to grab his coat. “She ate eight percent more than usual when you tried her on the spiral pasta, suggesting a strong liking for that type.” He paused, eyes narrowing, arm half into his coat. “Could be messy though,” he said.

“Messy, yeah,” John agreed, beaming as he joined Sherlock at the door. “But come on, where’s the fun otherwise?”

 


End file.
